


Everything But Mine

by leici



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 22:08:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2245059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leici/pseuds/leici
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's no fucking reason for him to be pining like some kind of lovesick moron. He doesn't love Todd, not like that, and Todd doesn't love him. It's that simple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything But Mine

**Author's Note:**

> Set during the eventual 3-7 loss on July 8, 2008 against the Brewers. I have no idea of Tulo was traveling with the team or not, but this story assumes that he was.
> 
> Rockies Lexicon: Garrett is Garrett Atkins (third base), Barmey is Clint Barmes (alternate shortstop/utility infielder), Q is Omar Quintanilla (utility infielder), Spilly is Ryan Spilborghs (utility outfielder; he strained his left oblique running the bases in the game this story is based on), Bake/Baker is Jeff Baker (utility infielder; injured his wrist in a game earlier the same week), Jeff Francis is a starting pitcher (on DL for an inflamed left shoulder), Todd is Todd Helton (longtime usual first baseman, on the DL with a lower back inflammation), Herges is Matt Herges (relief pitcher), Clint is Clint Hurdle (manager).
> 
> Written July 2008.

It's a fucking disaster. Garrett's playing first base (which pisses Tulo off for reasons he can't even begin to figure out), Barmey's on third, and Q is back playing short.  _His_  position. Which he's going to have a hard time keeping if he can't stay in the damn lineup for more than two weeks at a time.  
  
Idiot.  
  
He's sitting on the bench next to Jeff Baker, who's in a wrist brace, Jeff Francis, and Ryan Spilborghs, who looks like he's about to cry or pass out, his strained oblique is hurting so bad. The walking wounded. Todd would be there, too, except he's back in Denver, getting painkillers shot directly into his spine.  
  
What a fucking mess. And he's not even going to talk about the score of this particular game.  
  
Herges comes in, and the Brewers keep getting hits, and Tulo really wants to go around hitting things or screaming because all he really wants is to be  _out there_ , to help fill in the patchy lineup and get some hits or steal a God damn base or two. He hears Spilly make a soft gasp and a low sound of pain and it makes him even more mad. Because if he had hurt himself trying to tie up the game, like Spilly had, he wouldn't feel like such a complete and utter waste of space.  
  
All he really can do is sit there, and nod when Bake swears and makes comments that sound like they came directly out of Tulo's brain.  
  
He thinks maybe it would have been better if he'd stayed in Denver. Because there he wouldn't have to watch this, and feel frustrated and useless because he can't do anything but field ground balls during BP.  
  
Because back in Denver he'd be with Todd. Even if he  _wouldn't_  be at the same time.  
  
Maybe he's feeling a little more clingy than usual, because of the injury. Or maybe he just wants to make sure that Todd's not pissed at him, for fucking up his hand, or for trying to push the limits of their ill fated, heavily guarded relationship. Thing.  
  
Tulo always says he's not built for monogamy. Because he's a twenty-three year old kid making millions and millions of dollars a year playing a game he loves. He has his pick of just about any girl he wants, so why not pick half a dozen? Except he hasn't picked any, not since he signed his enormous contract, or since his team made it to the playoffs last fall.  
  
Not since Todd gave him a rough hand job in the back seat of his car after they won the right to play for the National League Wild Card.  
  
That night, Todd had been ecstatic. Once they finally managed to nail down the D-Backs and win the game, if only just barely, and they knew they were getting the shot at the Wild Card, Todd had lost it a little bit. He'd been playing for the team for a decade without even a glimpse at the playoffs. The closest Todd's Rockies had ever been, and Todd wanted to go so bad he could taste it.  
  
Tulo, on the other hand, had been pragmatic. They still needed to beat the Padres in a tiebreaker game the next day. They could just as easily lose as win, and he certainly didn't want to get anyone's hopes up, didn't want anyone to underestimate San Diego, or think too far ahead. They needed to focus, calm down, and be ready to play.  
  
Todd had told him he needed to relax a little.  _You're twenty-two and you'll probably be going to the playoffs in your rookie season. You might want to try and enjoy it a little bit._  Tulo argued his position about wanting to keep his head in the game and not take anything for granted, and Todd dragged him out to the parking lot, way to the far side, and shoved him up against the side of his SUV.  
  
Tulo thought Todd might kick his ass. Or ream him out or something, because they were pretty far out of the way of the rest of the cars, and Todd might be able to get a few licks in before anyone heard him scream.  
  
Todd got his licks in, all right. Pinned against the car door, Tulo was completely at Todd's mercy as the first baseman slid his hand up to fondle Tulo's groin, hot mouth on the side of Tulo's neck. And while Tulo had never ever been touched like that by another guy before, there was something about the way Todd did it, or the fact that it was  _Todd_ , that kept him from resisting. At all. And the next thing he knew he was sitting in the back seat while Todd worked a pretty incredible orgasm out of him.  
  
Maybe Todd broke him back then, because he's been completely lost on everyone else since. Girls in barely-there skirts with their breasts practically popping out of their tops seem to have little to no effect on him anymore, and he finds himself more than happy to just go home and jerk himself off after games now, rather than heading out to whatever club to find someone to take with him.  
  
And then, of course, on the road, on the nights he's lucky enough to get the call, he ends up in Todd's bed. Considering there'd been no more random hand jobs during the rest of the playoffs - partially because of concentration issues, and partially because Todd's family started traveling with him - Tulo was a little shocked at the beginning of the season when Todd asked him back to his room in St. Louis on the first road trip of the year and went down on him.  
  
It had been a pretty spectacular blow job too, at least as far as Tulo was concerned. There was just something about that  _beard_  and the way it felt against the insides of his thighs...  
  
He decides he should stop that line of thinking right there, before he does something else stupid. He must have a dumb look on his face as it is, because Bake's staring at him like his hair is on fire.  
  
"What?" Tulo asks, and he makes the question sound bitchy enough that Baker puts his hands up in a gesture of surrender.  
  
"Nothin' man."  
  
That's right, nothing. But Tulo doesn't say anything more, and tries to keep his expression neutral. He feels like a jackass, thinking about Todd like this while his team is losing and he's not even contributing because he's too much of a child to keep himself under control.  
  
He can't help himself. He's a kid with a healthy sex drive. One that just happens to be kinda stuck in whatever gear Todd symbolizes. Fourth, at least, though sometimes it feels like overdrive, and giving himself up in ways he never thought he'd want to has the same kind of exhileration as taking the Maserati out on that empty stretch of E-470 where he can risk pegging the speedometer without getting caught. In fact, it's exactly like that, right down to the having to keep it to himself part. His secret thrill.  
  
Fuck, he wishes he was anywhere but here.  
  
He gets up and heads into the clubhouse, because he needs some space, some air. It's so damn hot up top, and Milwaukee has about four thousand more percent humidity than Denver and he feels like he's melting. There's AC downstairs, and he just goes and paces for a minute, trying to calm himself down. He crosses over to his temporary locker - which looks pretty pathetic since he's only just got his street clothes in there, none of his gear, only the uniform pieces he needs to blend in on the bench - and he picks up his cell phone in his left hand. The screen is blank, no one has called, or even sent a text, since the last time he looked. He flips it open and scrolls through the phonebook entries until he finds Todd's - Todd Helton, like he needs the last name there to know who it is - and just looks at it. It's Todd's cell phone, so if he did call it, it's not like he'd be calling the house, or risking having to explain to Christy why he's calling in the middle of a game. Still, if Todd's at home - which, where else would he be? - it's not like Christy won't find out he's calling anyway.  
  
Besides, there's no reason to call Todd. It's not like Todd can reassure him over the phone, not like he needs him to. It's not like the sound of Todd's voice is going to make his hand instantly better, or the team stop losing.  
  
He snaps the phone shut a little harder than necessary and tosses it down into the bottom of his locker. The sound it makes is momentarily satisfying, but a second later he just feels worse. Heavy and lonely and stupid. There's no fucking reason for him to be pining like some kind of lovesick moron. He doesn't love Todd, not like that, and Todd doesn't love him. It's that simple.  
  
Back on the bench, he tries to ignore the wheezing sounds of Spilly's breath and Bake's bitchy commentary. He fists his left hand hard enough to feel his blunted fingernails digging into his palm, and grinds his teeth when Clint makes a double switch that puts Koshansky on first.  
  
It pisses him off for reasons he won't let himself begin to contemplate.


End file.
